


Arev T’Nash-veh

by GenericUsername01



Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek
Genre: Big problems, But not really it’s mostly just the one, Case Fic, Drama, Interspecies Relationship(s), Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Ramadan, Secrets, They get married platonically, Vulcan Biology, Vulcan Culture, Vulcan Mycroft Holmes, Vulcan Sherlock Holmes, its not really plot relevant but its very convenient, muslim sherlock holmes, not too big a deal, theyre real stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-10-05 13:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17325656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenericUsername01/pseuds/GenericUsername01
Summary: The year is 2011. Earth has never been contacted by aliens.Sherlock Holmes is half-Vulcan.No one can ever know.





	1. Discovery

It starts with a case, of course.

They're chasing a criminal down back alleys in London and Sherlock, idiot that he is, splits off without telling John. He's disappeared too quickly for him to react, and by the time he notices, Sherlock is long gone, God knows where.

"Sherlock!" John hisses, skidding to a stop and whirling around. No sign of him.  _Fuck._

A gunshot rings out two streets back and John swears and sprints towards it.

Sherlock is lying slumped over in the alleyway, gasping and shuddering in pain, breaths hissed out and ragged. John kneels beside him instantly, applying pressure with one hand and dialing 999 with the other.

"Hello, I need an ambulance, we're at 59--"

Sherlock snatches the phone out of his hand and throws it against the wall, far harder than he should be able to. It shatters on contact, breaking instantly. John gapes.

"Sherlock!"

"'S just a graze," he said.

"It looks like you've nicked an artery!"

"So patch it up then," he said irritably.

"Sherlock, I don't have any-- I can't just-- Oh, fuck you," he said. He had no choice, really. No one was on their way and Sherlock was bleeding profusely, the graze on his arm gushing dark fluid that John could barely see in the night. It seemed, oddly, too hot. John frowned. He had no clue what that meant, but it definitely wasn't anything good.

He flung Sherlock's coat open and dragged the detective bodily out of it, undoing the buttons on his left sleeve, tearing off a large strip, and then rolling the rest up as far as it would go. His eyes scanned the alleyway until they lighted on a small scrap of wood, broken off from a pallet of some sort.

"Hold that," he commanded tersely, and went over to grab the wood. He came back quickly enough and set about tying up and twisting off a tourniquet, effectively staunching the arterial blood flow.

"That was a shite graze," he said. "Went way too far in. You'll need stitches for sure, and almost definitely a blood transfusion. Tourniquets are supposed to be a last resort only. This'll hold you for a little while, but Sherlock, we have to get you to a hospital."

"No," he said, slouching further against the brick wall, head thrown back. "There's nothing they can do for me there."

"Yes, there is, Sherlock, I just--"

"No, John," he said. "It's right in front of your face and yet you still don't see. The blood, John. What's wrong with my blood?"

He frowned. "It was a bit more warm than I expected, but... Wait. Are you saying-- Is this your way of telling me you have HIV?"

He forced himself not to recoil. If he did, then John was way past exposed at this point, and may as well continue treating his patient.

But Sherlock laughed. "No. John, it's so obvious. The color. Look at the color."

"I can't see in this dark."

Sherlock grinned. "Well, help me up then. We have to get home anyway. Your medkit awaits."

John rolled his eyes and hoisted Sherlock up, wrapping one of Sherlock's arms over his shoulders. "Lazy git," he said. "If I wasn't so worried about you passing out from blood loss, and God knows when the last time you ate was, by the way..."

Now Sherlock rolled his eyes.

They stepped out of the alley and into the glow of distant streetlights.

And that was when John saw it.

Sherlock's blood. It was green.


	2. Explanation

"Sherlock, why is your blood green?"

"Because it is. Why is your blood red?"

"No. No, we're not playing this. What the fuck did you do to your blood? Are you experimenting on yourself?" he asked. "Oh God. Did you... Did you cook up some new drug and decide to test it out--"

"No, John, it's hardly any cause for concern."

"Your blood is green!"

"I am aware," he said. "It's supposed to be green."

"What?"

"My blood is naturally green."

"No it isn't. That's not even possible."

"Yes it is. The oxygen in my blood is carried by copper-based cells rather than iron ones. It's hardly an outlandish concept. Your Earth's cuttlefish has the same design."

Something in John went very cold at the words. "What are you saying?"

"I am not human, obviously."

John stopped walking.

Sherlock turned around, seemingly oblivious to the nine different levels of wrong that that sentence was. "Well, not fully, I mean. I am half-human."

"What else?" John croaked.

"What else what?"

"Half-human and half...?"

"Vulcan."

"Vulcan."

"Yes. Lovely little planet in the 40 Eridani A system. Or so I've been told. Never actually been."

"Sherlock," he said. "Are you saying-- Are you saying you're an alien?"

He gave him a dry look. "I thought that was quite clear by this point, John. Do keep up."

He shook his head. "No. No," he said. "You're putting me on. Taking the piss. There's no way you're an alien. There just isn't. That's-- No!"

Sherlock stared. "Alright then."

He started walking again. John hurried to catch up.

"Alright then?  _Alright then?!"_ he said. "You can't just say you're an alien as a passing fancy, Sherlock!"

"I didn't," he said. "The circumstances left me no choice but to tell the truth, and so I did. It was logical. Frankly, I expected you to ask questions, demand an explanation. You dismissing me entirely makes things  _much_ simpler." He cast a glance down at his tied-off arm. "I'm sure you'll even find some way to rationalize the green blood."

John gaped. "Tell me the truth!"

"I did."

"The real truth, Sherlock, not that crock of shite."

"Believe me or don't. Either way, I have told you the truth."

"No," he said. "No, you haven't. If you're an alien, then how come you look just like a human? Hm? The only difference is green blood?"

Sherlock sighed and pushed a curl behind his ear, revealing that it tapered off into an elegant point. John's jaw dropped. And then Sherlock pushed his bangs off his forehead to show pointed eyebrows.

"I am half-human," he repeated. "In addition, many humanoid species throughout the Milky Way have common ancestors from millennia and millennia ago thanks to some dubiously ethical meddling from a species known only as the Preservers."

John's head was spinning.

"And that is far from the only biological difference. Though most are internal."

They soon fell into a more heavily populated street and the conversation was dropped. For now.


	3. Title

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S'haile = Lord  
> v'tosh ka'tur = Vulcans without logic  
> Hassu = doctor/healer

Mycroft is waitingfor them when they get back to 221B.

"Is he an alien too?" John blurts out.

"Oh, I see," Mycroft said.

"Fuck off," Sherlock said, flopping down onto the sofa, injured arm extended outwards. "It was unavoidable."

"I'm sure. Just as getting shot was unavoidable?"

"Of course."

"Well, now that the secret is out." Mycroft gave a tight, false smile. "Srlok. Getting shot and exposing yourself is never truly unavoidable. A good measure of caution would do you wonders."

"You mean cowardice."

"I mean caution."

"Sorry," John cut in. "Srlok?"

"My name. My Vulcan name," Sherlock said.

"You have--" John's eyebrows shot up. "You have a different name?"

"Yes, yes, of course. My name is S'haile Vrinteyn Srlok cha'Siger, t'Shi'Kahr."

"Hell of a mouthful."

"Vulcans typically only go by their given name. Usually even our clan names-- what you would think of as a surname-- are superfluous," he said. "Oh, and Mycroft's real name is Sycropt."

"That's... Okay," he said. "Anything else I need to know?"

"Not at the moment," Sycropt said. He removed his suit jacket and undid a sleeve, rolling it up. "I do believe my dear brother requires a blood transfusion. I, unfortunately, am one of only two people on the planet who can give it to him."

"Two people? Who's the other?"

"God, he's slow," Sycropt said.

"Ta, thanks," John said. "Who's the other?"

"Our mother. The source of our Vulcan heritage," Sherlock-- Srlok?-- said.

"Right," he said.  "Right, I'll just-- I'll get the first aid kit."

He disappeared upstairs to get the kit and returned to icy silence. That, at least, was normal.

He extracted a pint of green blood from Sycropt and transfused it into Srl-- Sherlock. The entire process was stiflingly silent.

"So," John said, the tension fragile as glass. "How come you don't have the, uh-- the ears?"

Sycropt arched a curved, human-looking eyebrow. "I know of a very good plastic surgeon who is quite discreet, if paid the correct sum. When I was sixteen and realized my political aspirations, I decided to eliminate any... inconveniences. I have urged Srlok to do the same, but--"

"I, unlike some people, am not ashamed of my heritage."

John sat back and sipped his tea.

"I am not ashamed. I am Vulcan. I do not feel shame."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, as if genuinely stunned. "Because I seem to remember being told that emotions actually run deeper within our race."

"And yet should be ignored nonetheless, in the pursuit of pure logic."

"There is no such thing as pure logic."

"I will not listen to your misguided philosophies."

"Ooh, logical."

"Logic has brought our people out of a time of darkness and war and into one of enlightenment."

"And suppressed all passion in the process."

"For the good of society."

"Screw society."

Sycropt pursed his lips. He stood, umbrella swinging out dramatically. "Well," he said. "I believe I have had quite enough of this conversation. Srlok, you are a disgrace and there are humans more logical than you. The path of the v'tosh ka'tur is one of barbarism. Hassu Watson, thank you for your services, and please do try to make my little brother here see reason. Live long and prosper."

He held up his hand in a strange salute and then he was out the door.


	4. Exposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t'kaul'ama = apostate

"What the bloody hell was that all about?" John asked. "All that stuff about logic and no emotions?"

"Surakian philosophy. The main tenet of Vulcan culture. My world's people strive to control their emotions, to the point where they express absolutely none, and to live lives guided solely by logic," Sherlock said. "Impossible, of course."

"Okay," John said. "Okay, so, your-your name. Would you prefer if...?"

Sherlock stared at him blandly. John straightened.

"Do I call you Sherlock or Shhr-Sirl-Srilock-- um, that other one, I'll get it eventually-- now?"

"That's your first question?"

"Yeah?"

"...Sherlock is fine," he said. "Only my family call me Srlok."

John nodded. "Great. Okay. Now let's get your arm looked at."

He sat on the couch beside Sherlock and pulled supplies out of his first aid kit. Sherlock required eleven stitches, and John topped them off with antiseptic and heavy bandages, removing the makeshift tourniquet and binning it. Sherlock was silently compliant the entire time.

"Okay, that's getting a bit eerie now," John said. "Why aren't you talking?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Something? Anything? Just talk to me, Sherlock."

"When will you be moving out?"

John's blood froze. "What?"

"This is not what you signed up for when you agreed to a flatshare with me. You tolerated my various eccentricities, but this is too much. I'm not even human. I come from a race that doesn't feel emotion."

John frowned. "I thought you just told Mycroft that Vulcans feel things more strongly? They just try to control it?"

"...Yes?"

"So why are you saying you don't feel emotions, then?"

"You don't get it," he said. "I do feel things, yes, but I'm not supposed to. I let my emotions drive me. It's illogical. I am v'tosh ka'tur, a t'kaul'ama. I am considered a disgrace to my people and my entire planet."

John frowned. "You aren't a disgrace." He took Sherlock's hands in his own, and the man's eyebrows shot straight up, a faint green blush coloring his cheeks.

How had John never noticed that before? He shook his head. Sherlock was so startlingly pale, and he had always attributed the oddities of his complexion to sickliness, brought on by an unhealthy lifestyle.

"Sherlock, you're amazing. You're a credit to your people, and your planet should be glad to have you." He smiled. "Earth sure is."

For a moment, Sherlock looked so young and vulnerable and painfully hopeful. Then his expression shuttered closed.

"If only everyone thought like you."


	5. More Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> katra = soul

"What do you mean?"

He smiled sadly. "I'm a hybrid," he said. "A disgusting half-breed. There's a reason my family lives on Earth, John. We wouldn't be welcome back on Vulcan."

"What?" Anger coursed through him.

"Yes. Unfortunately, advanced as it is, Vulcan is not some sort of perfect utopia. It has its issues."

"You..." John faltered, the pieces falling in place in his mind.

Sherlock's family of extra-terrestrials lived in hiding and perpetual fear on a planet that had barely dipped their toes into space. He had implied that they could return to VUlcan if they wished, but chose not to. That meant that a life of secrecy and hiding was still somehow preferable to the sheer level of bigotry they would face back on Vulcan.

"God damn," John swore. "They're all bastards anyway. Space racism? How is that logical?"

"Vulcans  _attempt_ to be logical. They rarely succeed."

John huffed, wanting to pace and snarl and punch something. Sherlock deserved so much better. He deserved the world, not... this.

And John needed to focus.

"Is there anything I need to know?" he asked. "Medically?"

"What do you mean?"

"Any substances fatal to your species, dietary needs, what your baseline readouts are supposed to be, that sort of thing. If you get in a medical emergency, Sherlock, I need to know how to treat you."

He scoffed. "Vulcans are capable of self-inducing a healing trance," he said. "It diverts almost the entirety of our strength, blood, and antibodies to fixing the medical issue. If anything happens, I can take care of myself."

"...By entering a coma."

"Healing trance," he corrected. "And... Well, I may need some help coming out of it."

"Just a second," John said. He walked across the livingroom to snatch a little-used off a shelf, tearing out the few pages that were already filled. He got a pen and started taking notes. "Alright. Healing trances. How do I bring you out of it?"

"Slap me."

"What?"

"Slap me repeatedly. In the face."

"Sherlock..."

"I'm serious, John. Intense physical stimulus is necessary to bring the conscious mind to the fore and ground one's katra back within reality and the body."

"Intense physical stimulus? Can't I give you that in some other way?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and John's face slowly turned beet red. He cleared his throat.

"Alright. Slapping you. Now, what's your resting heart rate?"

"Don't know."

"Don't know?"

He shrugged. "It's high."

"Well, what's the healthy standard for a Vulcan adult?"

"Irrelevant. I am half-human. Both human and Vulcan standards are completely useless. My biology is completely unprecedented."

"Sherlock," John said slowly. "Tell me you've seen a doctor before. At least once in your life."

"Never met a doctor my family could trust. Even money only goes so far."

"Right," John said, standing up. "Right, I'm calling your mum. And Mycroft. And I'm giving you all physicals and I'm going to create my own bloody baseline."

"That's hardly necessary."

"I am the doctor here. You are the idiot patient. And I am calling your mum."


	6. Physicals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T'Sai = Lady  
> T'Va'kau = "of infinite wisdom"  
> Dif-tor heh smusma = Live long and prosper  
> Also I realize cha' is masculine but I couldn't find a female variant, so oh well

T'Sai Vrinteyn T'Va'kau cha'T'Vaksur, t'Shi'Kahr was one hell of a woman.

And never let it be said that she did not love her sons.

So when she got the call from Dr. Watson the next morning, she commanded that her entire family convene at Baker Street at once, no exceptions, no excuses.

Sycropt arrived first, looking emotionlessly put-out in a three-piece suit. He and Sherlock sat across from each other, glaring and saying nothing.

John made tea. Mycroft drank it but said nothing.

Then their parents arrived, thank God.

Mr. Holmes was a completely average-looking human man. Mrs. Holmes, on the other hand, was a tall, statuesque woman with striking features. Her eyes were sharp and clear, just like Sherlock's, radiating intelligence. She wore a long-sleeved, floor-length dress and a hijab, Vulcan features effectively hidden.

John raised an eyebrow. He had not been expecting that. He had been expecting-- well, to be honest, plastic surgery like Mycroft had. Now Sherlock's comment about him being ashamed of his heritage had a lot more clout.

The Holmes parents sat gracefully, Mr. Holmes smiling a thank you at John after being given tea.

"Hassu Watson," Mrs. Holmes said. "You wished to provide my family with medical examinations?"

He cleared his throat. "Ah, yes. It'd be beneficial, I think, in case something happens. I need to know what the healthy standard is in case of an emergency, so I know what readings I should be aiming for."

"Logical," she said. "You will proceed with me first."

"...Alright then."

He hefted up his medical bag onto the coffee table and began the examination. He took her pulse, blood pressure, temperature, height and weight measurements, and a blood sample. He asked about the typical Vulcan diet and how she had been coping since coming to Earth. He told her to buy vitamin-D and copper supplements to take every day. He asked about life expectancy and preventative medicine and internal organ structures.

He was shocked at every single one of her answers.

Then he examined Mycroft and Sherlock and got wildly different results.

"Alright," he said, tucking away his stethoscope. "Well, you certainly aren't human, that's for sure."

"An astute observation," Sherlock said dryly.

"Ta. You all need to make dietary changes. You need copper in the same amount that humans need iron, and a human-style diet simply isn't providing that. You're getting too much of some vitamins and too little of others. Mrs. Holmes, you said most Vulcans these past few centuries have been vegetarians? That's with good reason. A vegetarian diet would actually be a lot healthier for all of you. And you should try to eat as much natural, organic stuff as possible. God knows what Earth preservatives will do to you. There hasn't been a single study with your particular biologies in mind, and definitely nothing long-term. So best just to avoid all that entirely."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Didn't realize you were pandering to that hippie New Age crap, doctor."

 _"Anyway,"_ he said. "Your bodies are supposed to be getting a lot more sunlight. That's what the vitamin-D supplement is for. You can just buy that over the counter, don't need a prescription or anything. A copper supplement will be a tad harder to come by. It'd be easier to  just adjust your diets instead. Uh, some foods to eat: liver--"

Sherlock made a disgusted noise.

"On second thought, don't eat liver. Um, oysters, spirulina, shiitake mushrooms, pretty much any nuts or seeds, especially sunflower seeds, leafy greens, lobster-- though that's also not an option, you shouldn't be eating meat-- and dark chocolate."

"Splendid," Mycroft said in the dryest tone John had ever heard in his life. "We'll live on oysters and chocolate for the rest of our lives."

"Thank you, Hassu Watson," Mrs. Holmes said. "Nemaiyo."

John looked to Sherlock.

"It means 'thank you,'" he said.

"Oh. Well, it's no problem, Mrs. Holmes. I'm glad to do it."

She bowed her head slightly, but it seemed more like a respectful acknowledgement than a show of submission. "You may call me T'Va'kau."

She stood, her husband and eldest son following her lead. She held up her hand in the same strange salute that Sycropt had used yesterday. "Dif-tor heh smusma."


	7. Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conversation in italics is in Vulcan

"Dif-tor heh smusma?" John asked.

"Live long and prosper. A traditional blessing among my people. It has a variation, as well: Peace and long life."

"That's beautiful," John said. "Your whole language sounds beautiful."

Sherlock blinked. "I could-- teach it to you, if you wish."

John smiled. "I'd love that."

* * *

Life went on in 221B, albeit somewhat differently.

John understood now that Sherlock ate and slept so little because he only needed a little. He still pestered him about it, just to a lesser degree.

Sherlock stopped zoning out in what looked like a prayer pose on the couch at random times during the day. Instead, he zoned out in the lotus position on a woven mat, at the same time every day, or for the occasional top-up as needed, and explained that he was meditating, and it was fairly essential for Vulcan health.

John learned Vulcan in bits and pieces under Sherlock's surprisingly patient tutoring. With the language lessons came little peeks into his culture, too. When Sherlock had initially said that all of Vulcan culture revolved around the pursuit of logic, John had thought he'd been exaggerating. He soon came to realize that wasn't the case.

Mycroft would drop by on occasion but now he annoying chose to speak solely in Vulcan. Sherlock retaliated by speaking only in English, except for the occasional word here and there that John suspected strongly were curses. It was a thing to watch. John couldn't keep up with it at all. He thought that even if he was fluent in Vulcan, he would have a hard time switching languages that often and that frequently.

Sherlock used a graduated cylinder to pour out copper chloride into seltzer every morning, and drank that with his tea. John took to carrying around packets of sunflower seeds and bullying Sherlock into eating them whenever he got too caught up in a case to bother with anything else.

The green blood that had been splashed all over a back alley somewhere never came up. John suspected Mycroft's minions had something to do with that. The suspect who had shot Sherlock got away and skipped town, before getting caught in Wales ten days later. John chewed Sherlock out for days about being an idiot and taking unnecessary risks.

Sherlock looked ecstatic.

It was unnerving.

* * *

In the end, it was Mycroft's fault, just as everything bad that had ever happened in Sherlock's entire life was.

_"Your pon farr approaches."_

"No it doesn't."

_"Srlok, you are exactly seven years younger than me. I had my first one when I was your age, and will have another in 8.23 months."_

"You have no way of knowing the potential course of things. For all you know, I will never be burdened by that particular... occurrence."

John frowned. "What occurrence?"

The two Vulcans ignored him entirely.  _"You must bond."_

Sherlock snarled. _"I will never bond."_

_"Then you will die."_

_"What is, is."_

_"Srlok."_

_"You will not change my mind on this matter, Sycropt,"_ he said.  _"My mind is my greatest asset. It is who I am, it is everything. If it is not entirely mine, then my life is not worth living."_

_"A mind-link is not so intrusive as you suppose. I find mine eminently convenient."_

_"You bonded with your PA!"_

_"A logical choice,"_ he said.  _"Anthea is a constant, reliable presence in my life, and our bond is beneficial, professionally."_

_"She has an alien kink, Sycropt."_

_"Such is the way of things,"_ he said.  _"Nevertheless, I required a bond, and she was obliging. As I suspect your good doctor would be."_

Sherlock froze.  _"No."_

_"Whyever not?"_

_"Because John is--"_ he started.  _"John is straight."_

"Are you two talking about me?" he asked.

_"It hardly needs to be a true marriage, Srlok. I am certain he is compassionate enough to put up with your undesirable gender for a few days once every decade in order to save your life."_

He shook his head.  _"No. No, I will have all of John or I will have him not at all."_

Sycropt looked at him, and maybe Srlok was imagining it, but he could almost see sadness in his eyes.  _"Then you will perish, brother mine."_


	8. Conversation

"What was all that about?" John asked after Mycroft had left the flat.

"My brother wants to force me to marry."

John choked.  _"What?!"_

"Oh, do calm down. It's different for Vulcans."

"How so?"

"There's a biological imperative," he spat.

"What?"

Sherlock rubbed at his temples. "We aren't supposed to speak of this with outworlders," he said. "It is our species greatest secret. But, then, I suppose it doesn't matter if you know, does it?"

"I won't tell anyone."

He nodded. "I know." He breathed in deeply. "It is called pon farr."

John waited.

"Our species is driven to... mate, repeatedly, over a course of several days."

John arched an eyebrow, half-laughing. "Are you saying you go into heat?"

Sherlock blushed furiously. "There's no need to be so crass about it."

"Oh. Oh! God. I was-- I was joking. You really...?" He cleared his throat. "Alright. So what exactly happens, medically?"

"Hormones will flood my body's systems. I will begin mass producing the Vulcan equivalent of adrenaline. I will be extremely irritable, volatile, and in a constant state of arousal. I may grow violent. It's... It's dangerous."

"For you?" John asked. "Or for those around you?"

"Both," he said. "I am not sure how much... control I will have. I may... attack... someone. You should leave the flat for a week once the warning signs begin to present."

He nodded. "Alright. You said it was dangerous for you too, though. How so? What happens?"

"I might die."

_"What?!"_

"Unsated, the physical and emotional pressures will be too much for my body to handle. I'll... burn up, essentially."

"Unsated?"

"Yes."

"So you just need to...?" He made a vague hand gesture.

"It is not that simple. Only a bondmate can slake the blood fever. The plak tow, we call it."

"What's a bondmate?"

"My species is telepathic--"

_"What?!"_

"--and as such, we are capable of forming psychic bonds with--"

"Have you been reading my mind this whole time?!"

Sherlock glared at him sharply. "What you are suggesting is kae'at k'lasa. Mind-rape. It is the most severe crime on Vulcan. I would never do that to  _anyone."_

John sat down. "Okay. Sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything like that. I just don't understand. What do you mean, your species is telepathic?"

"I can read the minds of those around me. However, I maintain strong mental shields to prevent this from happening. I don't read anyone's thoughts on accident, or without consent," he said. "And before you ask, no, I don't use it on cases."

"I wasn't going to ask that."

Sherlock stared at him. His expression changed from scrutinizing to puzzled. "You weren't, were you?" he murmured. He shook his head. "Nevermind. Anyway, you should know that Vulcan telepathy is very strong. We are generally called 'touch telepaths,' though that is somewhat misleading. Basically, I cannot filter out other's thoughts when in physical contact with them."

"Is that why you avoid anyone touching you?"

"Precisely. Humans don't realize what they're doing when they touch me. They don't have all the information."

John nodded. "Okay. So. You were talking about bonds."

"Yes. Vulcans can form telepathic links with other people. The most primitive form of this is a familial bond, between siblings or parents and children. It's very basic, and allows only background awareness of the other person's continued existence and state of wellbeing."

"You and Mycroft have one?"

"Of course. We both share a bond with our mother, as well," he said. "Another type is the spousal bond. It's much deeper and more complex than a familial bond. It allows full awareness of each partner's emotions and surface thoughts. And then there is the t'hy'la bond."

"What's that?"

"T'hy'la means friend, brother-in-arms, lover. It is the deepest bond any two people can share, and only a few are blessed with it every century. The bond of warriors. It forms spontaneously between individuals whose minds are... meant for each other. It cannot be blocked without causing physical sickness, and it cannot be broken without causing immediate death."

"I guess divorce isn't really an option, then."

"Neither is marriage. There is no choice in a t'hy'la bond. It just happens."

John looked at him shrewdly. "Alright," he said. "So, what I'm getting here is, you have a limited amount of time to find someone to form a spousal bond with, or else you'll die."

"Correct."

John shrugged. "What about me?"


	9. Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kae t'nash-veh vi'kae t'du = "my mind to your mind" (ish)

Sherlock choked on his tea, sputtering.  _"What?!"_

"I'll bond with you."

"John, that's marriage."

"I know."

"We'll have to have sex."

"That's fine."

Sherlock gaped.

It wasn't that he was against the idea of bonding with John. God no. To have a constant link to his mind, to know absolutely everything about him... Sherlock wanted that more than anything.

But this felt too much like a dream to be real.

"Look," John said. "I'm not asking you to marry me for real. I'm saying that you need a bond, and you're my friend and I'll help you out. How many other people know about your... biology, anyway?"

And there it was.

"No one," Sherlock said. "Just family."

John nodded. "Alright. You don't have to answer me right now, just think about it, alright?" He smiled. "I don't mind. Seriously."

"I would be in your head," he blurted.

He huffed. "Believe me, Sherlock, you're already in my head bloody constantly. Besides, you said you can't block a t'hy'la bond? Does that mean you  _can_ block a spousal bond?"

"Yes," he said. "Nothing would change, then."

"Right, exactly!" he said. "See, Sherlock, it doesn't have to mean anything. I really-- I want to do this for you. I can't-- I can't let you die."

"I could bond with someone else."

John pulled back slightly. "Do you want to?"

No, but he didn't want a false half-bond with John either. He wanted the real thing, all of it, but that was far too much to ask.

He had to think logically. Just this once. He may be v'tosh ka'tur, but pon farr had nothing to do with sentiment, and there is no love in a biological drive. Sherlock will either bond and mate with someone or he will die.

Simple logistics.

On Vulcan, marriages are arranged as children by their respective parents, so that pon farr catches no one unprepared. Everyone has a mate already lined up. It is illogical to protest this. The only reason to do so would be sentiment. Emotion.

Illogical. Barbaric.

Vulcans do not marry for love. And not even half-human ones are exempt from pon farr.

John is the only human Sherlock can tolerate. But this...

"It would be permanent," he said. "Breaking a bond is immensely painful."

John grinned. "Think I've already made it pretty clear I'm in here for the long haul, Sherlock. I won't abandon you. I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised slightly, and he tamped down on the reflex, schooling his face into impassivity. "I-- Are you sure?"

"Certain. Sherlock, there is nothing you could do that would drive me away. You are a secret alien hybrid who keeps body parts in the fridge and solves crimes for a living. Sex isn't going to be the thing that sends me running." He smirked. "I actually happen to like sex, you know."

Sherlock's heart jumped. "But you're straight."

"What?"

"You're straight."

"No, I'm not. I'm bisexual." His face slowly morphed into a gleeful grin. "Oh my God! You didn't know?"

"Shut up!"

"You made an assumption!" he said, entirely too happy about it. "You, Sherlock Holmes, made a stupid, inaccurate assumption about me.  _Without all the data!"_

"Must we discuss this?"

John cackled. "You were wrong!"

"Yes yes, and it's clearly the most hilarious thing to have ever happened--"

"It is, it is."

"Oh, whatever!" he said. "So you're not straight?"

"No, of course I'm not straight," John said, still grinning.

Sherlock breathed deeply. "You would really be willing to bond with me?" he asked. "Seriously?"

John took his hands in his own. "Of course. I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you one way or the other, Sherlock Holmes. And I'd like you to stay alive for that."

Sherlock stared into his eyes, feeling the soul-deep certainty of his words. His telepathy picked up compassion and fierce affection and fondness and anticipation.

He nodded. "Alright."

John smiled softly. "So how do we bond?"

Sherlock lifted a hand to the meld points on John's face, fingers splayed. He closed his eyes and murmured, "Kae t'nash-veh vi'kae t'du..."

And they fell into each other and they never quite stopped.

An infinity later, Sherlock pulled his hand away and they were both breathless and gasping, staring at each other like they had never seen the other before.

It was beautiful. It was unforgettable.

They were bonded, for better or for worse.


	10. The Butterfly Killer

Lestrade came by the flat, bright and early, the next morning.

"We've got a case," he said.

Sherlock looked him up and down, eyes searing. "Murder?"

He nodded. "Serial. At least, it looks like. It's got all the makings of a potential."

"You're predicting a serial killer with only one body so far?" he asked, intrigued. "They left a signature, didn't they? Don't answer that, of course they did. Made a show of the body too, must have put it on display. We've got an exhibitionist."

Lestrade grimaced. "Look, I can only stall them processing the scene for so long. Are you coming or not?"

"Of course I'm coming. John! Either take your breakfast with you or leave it, we've got a case!"

* * *

The body was found laid splayed out on the most popular hiking trail in one of the biggest parks in the city. The scene was taped off, crowded with curious spectators along the sidelines, police milling about to keep the crowd at bay.

"He's here," Sherlock whispered. "One of these people is the killer. I'm certain of it."

"How?" John whispered back.

"Exhibitionist, remember? Look how much thought was put into the display of the body. This isn't a dump site, it's an art showing. And the artist would never dream of missing it," he said. "The discovery of the crime is as thrilling to him as the act itself, if not the main goal."

"Oi," Lestrade said. "Care to share with the class?"

"The murderer's here," John said tersely.

 _"Do not_ alert anyone," Sherlock said.

Lestrade tensed, hand hovering over his walkie talkie. "Oh? And why not? Won't this exhibitionist, as you say, be oh-so-thrilled to know we're onto him? We could detain everyone here, you could study the reactions of the crowd--"

"And all it will accomplish is feeding the killer's ego. There's too little data yet. Do feel free to make note of everyone here, however. There will be overlap at the next scene," Sherlock said. He moved over towards the body and crouched down next to it. "John, what do you think?"

"Uh, female,very young, can't be older than her early twenties. Cause of death is the, uh... The wound to her carotid. Sliced it right open. She choked on her own blood before she even had the chance to bleed out. It would have been quick. Very quick."

"Multiple stab wounds on the abdomen. One through the throat, one on the face. Obvious evidence of genital mutilation. You're right, John, he was quick. The throat stab would have been the first blow-- as much a silencing technique as anything-- but all these other wounds are peri-mortem. ...Sixteen stab wounds in a matter of minutes. God, he must have been frantic."

"Don't suppose you have a rough profile or anything, do you?"

"Of course," he said. "The victim was quite clearly a prostitute. Now, that may be significant, or it may just be convenient. Prostitutes-- very high-risk. It would be all too easy to approach as a potential client and then jump her in some back alley somewhere. The killing was vicious and rapid. There was needless overkill and brutality. Clear signs of hate. It may be a general hate towards prostitutes in general, or it may be more specific, maybe the killer knew the victim personally. The fact that he's a potential serial makes the second option a bit less likely, but it does not rule it out entirely.

"Now, the butterfly. The killer left a butterfly spread out in the center of the victim's chest.  _Danaus plexippus,_ the monarch butterfly, one of the most iconic species in the world and decidedly not native to England. Possibly the most significant feature of this entire scene. No. Definitely the most significant feature.

"The choice of the monarch specifically was deliberate, has to be. It would have been very difficult to acquire. It's symbolic, and means something that the killer thinks would be quite obviously apparent but actually isn't. The butterfly is his signature, his brand. His identity as a killer is completely tied up in it. Unfortunately, it could be that the monarch is his signature, or he could use a different species for each victim, symbolizing something about them personally. I won't know any more until we find a second body."

"We can't just wait around for him to kill again," Lestrade protested. "Come on. Investigate the victim. You said he might have known her personally?"

"It's a slim chance. In all likelihood, she was targeted purely because of her profession."

"Yeah, but there is a chance. We can't just sit on our hands while more people are killed. Come on Sherlock, work with me here."

"Can't you do your own work?" he said. "Even if he did know her, the connection will be extremely tenuous at best. You won't find any real suspects that way. He'll be protecting himself, playing it smart. Killers like this don't like to be taken out of the game."

"Hey," John said. "It can't hurt to look, can it? 'Sides, you've got nothing else on."

Sherlock looked at him. Then he sighed and turned his coat collar up. "Fine," he said. "But it's a complete waste of my and John's time, which could dearly be put to better use on the mold-and-skin-cells experiment."

 


	11. A Rant??

It only took three hours of asking key questions to key people to discover that the victim had been Ashley Tillman, 24, single mother of a six-year-old boy, living in a run-down flat and trying to kick her opioid habit, with stilted success.

And yes, she had been a prostitute.

They arrived at her flat to find that her son Luke was apparently used to being left alone for long periods of time-- though never to this degree-- and had been dutifully going to school and living off frozen dinners for the past two days. He seemed to at least be wary of strange men showing up at his door, and would only talk to them through the keyhole, and only after they had promised they weren't cops.

John immediately called child services and settled in outside the door, essentially guarding it until help arrived. Sherlock flitted off to go question the neighbors, though he wouldn't get much out of them and he knew it. People did not take well to a posh stranger swooping in and asking intrusive questions about their community.

* * *

Sherlock was in the labs, examining trace particulates left on the corpse. There weren't many, and everything he had found so far could be attributed to the park she had been found in. Highly likely that this was a fruitless endeavor and an exercise in futility.

But, it was something to do. And also John was pleased with the idea that Sherlock was working on finding justice for Ashley rather than just sitting around waiting for the killer to strike again.

Busywork. This was busywork, and it was illogical, and... You know what? Screw logic. Screw Mycroft and the entirety of Vulcan culture. Sherlock was v'tosh ka'tur anyway, and if he wanted to do something stupidly, uselessly illogical to please his mate, then so be it.

Fuck.

He continued debrading a particularly deep and vicious stab wound.

John sidled up to him out of nowhere and slid a packet of sunflower seeds towards him. Sherlock flicked it away.

"Come on. You didn't eat breakfast."

"How would you know? Perhaps I ate a full English before you even woke up."

"Sherlock, please. It won't interrupt your work at all. I'm not asking you to stop what you're doing, just... pick up a sunflower seed every now and then."

"Can't. Fasting."

"What?" he asked. "Oh. Oh! Is it Ramadan already? Geez, that snuck up on me."

"Unsurprising, as you do not follow the Islamic calendar." He squinted at the wound, then switched out his current tool for a different one. "Put the seeds away. I'll eat at sundown."

"I'll be making sure."

"You do that."

From John's perspective, learning that Sherlock was religious had been significantly more shocking than learning he was an alien. The idea that that man recognized a god and not only that, but was on the side of those serving him, was... unprecedented.

Apparently, T'Va'kau had arrived on Earth in her Vulcan robes and traditional headscarf and been mistaken for a somewhat eccentric hijabi by just about everyone. After about a week of extreme confusion, she approached several  _actual_ Muslim women on the street with a barrage of questions, ended up being invited back to one of their houses, and the local community just basically decided to keep her as their crazy but harmless white friend. She had quickly and happily converted, and to this day spoke fondly of how those three women (now her closest friends) and then the Muslim community had been the first humans to show her kindness, to make her feel that she had a chance here.

John had heard this warm, loving story and basically translated it in his head to Sherlock's mum crashing on the moors in a controlled fireball, wandering into the city, and then basically running up to some unsuspecting humans, screaming "SAME HAT," and following them home. Against all odds, it had worked out for the best. T'Va'kau had managed to integrate into human society, find a place and a people and even a family here.

Plus they had invited John to Eid al-Fitr last year and he had learned that convening the entire Holmes family in a social situation with other humans was, in fact, the peak of comedy. Mycroft had spent an entire hour and a half lecturing captive small children about tax law. T'Va'kau (though John had known her as Violet back then) had not displayed a single emotion or facial expression the entire day-- at one point, John had started watching to see if she ever blinked, but then he got too weirded out to continue. She had spoken very cryptically and formally to him about bonds.

This was not even starting on Sherlock's behavior.

And their dad was just. A completely normal person. Who had somehow found himself in the goddamn Addams family.

It was surreal; John had been delighted.

His phone trilled and he pulled it out of his pocket and answered immediately. "Hello?"

"Hey John, tell that absolute wanker you live with to answer his bloody phone now and then, yeah?" Greg said, pissed. It was pretty much his standard greeting for John. "There's been another murder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plotty stuff was meant to happen in this chapter but I am very easily distracted. Plot may happen in the next chapter. Maybe


	12. Fuck Chapter Titles

The body was found-- yet again-- displayed proudly in one of the most public areas of a local park. It was a young man this time.

"What are you doing here?" Sally Donovan sneered.

"Herding cats, as usual. Let us through," Sherlock snapped.

She folded her arms, moving with Sherlock when he tried to dodge around her. He pursed his lips.

"This is childish."

"You got no business calling anybody else childish, Freak."

"Sally, come on. We're invited. You  _know_ we're invited," John said.

"Yeah? Well, nobody told me, and standard protocol is no civilians on the scene."

"God, don't make me get Lestrade, it makes me feel like a little kid running to snitch on a sibling."

"Don't you--"

"Hey, what's the hold up?" Lestrade said, bounding towards them. "Sherlock, John, come on. We've got a scene to examine."

Sherlock smirked, pouring as much smug haughtiness as he could into the gesture. Sally glared even as she stepped aside and raised the tape.

But then the actual scene contained Monster #2, Philip Anderson. He rolled his eyes when he caught sight of them. "Really, boss, you couldn't let us handle just _one_ serial--"

"Oy," Lestrade said. "Tell 'em what you have so far."

He sighed. "Victim-- male, late teens to early twenties, carrying no ID but plenty of drugs. Stabbed about a dozen times. Think the one to his heart was what did him in. No blows to the neck this time, and it would have been a much slower death. Estimate time of death between eleven and three A.M."

"Not a dozen stab wounds, fourteen," Sherlock said, walking around. "The act would have been just as fast, but without the blood from a severed carotid spewing everywhere, that would take the edge of frantic urgency down by quite a bit. He's more in control this time. Can relish it."

"The butterfly's a monarch again," Lestrade nodded towards it. "Mean anything? Got any theories?"

"Center of the victim's chest again. Over the sternum, not the heart. He means it to cover the whole body. He's marking the victims as a whole, not that specific point on their bodies." He crouched down, pulling out his magnifying glass to examine the insect. "And the monarch... The monarch the monarch the monarch. Used to symbolize... nothing specific. Butterflies in general, though-- change, rebirth, transformation, impermanence, the soul, the  _elevation_ of the soul, and, in Christianity, resurrection."

"God, it's a crime scene, not a bloody English class," Anderson said. "Lestrade, he's on about  _symbolism."_

The DI grimaced. "So's the killer."

"Oh, but come on!"

"Sherlock, you've got to give me something. You said you'd have more information after a second kill. There's been a second kill. Now give me some information."

"You're looking for a vigilante," he said, standing. "First a prostitute, now a drug dealer. This man believes he's cleaning up the streets. He'll be heavily involved in the community, likely a respected leader. It's possible he has a job that exposes him to a lot of violence or allows him to feed his protective instincts. A surgeon, a paramedic, a firefighter, a soldier, something like that. Something that allows him to do something finite and feel like he is actively making his community safer. A family man, politically active, at  _least_ 25, though likely older. He'll be very open and proud about his beliefs. If you mention the murders to him, he'll give some empty platitude he doesn't believe and then follow it up by saying the killer was 'doing us all a service' or some similar nonsense." He looked back down at the body. "Less than a week between kills. He'll only speed up from here. He'll deteriorate rapidly. You're looking at a potential spree killer."


	13. Mlehhhh

John placed a bowl of soup, a separate bowl of various fruits, and a glass of water beside him. He cleared off space on the opposite side of the table and set down similar things for himself.

"No. Fasting," Sherlock said.

"It's sunset. Time for iftar."

Sherlock hesitated. He shook his head. "I don't have time for--"

"I'm not asking you to stop working. You can keep doing the whatever that is with the microscope and take a sip of water now and then. Won't disrupt you at all."

"It will sort of."

"No it won't," John promised. "And it's not dinner, right? It's just iftar. Just a little something so that you can say you broke your fast. For religious reasons."

Sherlock hesitated. He eyed John warily, who plastered on his most innocent smile.

Sherlock plucked a date out of the fruit bowl and went back to his microscope. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he said. "And it's just water and dates, by the way. I won't let you coerce me into an unnecessarily heavy iftar on top of the dinner you're going to force me to eat later."

"Actually, I went down to the local mosque, I spoke with an imam, and he said-- very clearly-- that it was perfectly okay to--"

"Don't care." Sherlock picked up another date.

John decided that was good enough.

* * *

The bed underneath bounced with an unexpected weight. John jolted upright, instantly alert, fumbling for his gun in his nightstand.

"That's hardly necessary. I am not a threat to you," came Sherlock's deep baritone.

"Yes you bloody are." John flopped backwards, but his heart was still beating like a hummingbird's wings. "Sherlock, I know you have some weird aversion to both common sense and self-preservation, but come on. I have PTSD. You know this. If you had triggered an actual episode, I could have shot you. I like  _would_ have shot you. The only reason you aren't dead right now is pure dumb luck."

"You would never shoot me."

"Yes, I  _would,_ Sherlock. I wouldn't have recognized you at all. I only would have seen a stranger and a threat. You have to take this seriously."

"I  _am_ taking this seriously. I am fully aware of your capabilities and limits, John. You forget our minds are linked. In the event of a true emergency, I am capable of exerting a calming influence over you."

"Okay. First of all, the threat of mind control is in no way reassuring. Second of all, I get the feeling that that's the same thing you tried to do when I found the leaking gallbladder next to the carrots, and it didn't work at all. 'Soothing vibes' aren't going to magic away my PTSD."

"Your two points are contradictory," Sherlock said. "Your first argument is that it's an unfair tactic due to it giving me too much control over you. Your second argument is that it's a completely ineffectual tactic and essentially useless."

"Yes, but both make the same point: that you should stop doing it," he said. "And stop startling me awake in the dead of night, Jesus Christ. What are you even doing in here?"

"Waking you up."

"But why?" he asked. He glanced at the clock, its blocky red numbers glaring at him. "It's... Jesus, it's 4:52 in the morning, Sherlock. This better be good. Did you solve the case? You'll have to wait a few hours before Lestrade--"

"No, no." He waved a hand. "This has nothing to do with the case. No, it's time for suhur."

He breathed sharply. "This is... Sherlock. It is completely unreasonable to wake me up  _at five in the bloody morning_ just so I can... Oh my god, you're going to try and get me to make it, aren't you?  _Sherlock._ I am not the one observing Ramadan. I do not need to get up at five for Ramadan-related things. I'm allowed to be asleep right now. I'm  _entitled_ to sleep right now."

"You can go back to sleep after."

"Absolutely not the point."

"Why do humans need so much sleep anyway?" Sherlock whinged, flopping down so he was laying beside John. "And some husband you are, leaving your mate to fend for himself and  _suffer. Alone."_

"How does making your own food constitute suffering?"

"I will  _die,_ John. I will wilt away and die."

"You know, you would've made a good Victorian. There would have been fainting couches for you to collapse on dramatically. Everything you wore would have been handmade and designer. You could attend balls, be tragically bored, and start at least ten major scandals."

He snorted. "Too easy. Everything was a scandal back then," he said. "And then I would have died young of consumptive fever."

John nodded. "And then you would've died young of consumptive fever," he agreed. "You would have never married, refused all your suitors, and left behind a city of broken hearts."

Sherlock snorted, again, grinning. "Yes, well, enough about my life as a tragic gay Victorian. Chop chop, John. Someone needs to make suhur, and it certainly won't be me."

He huffed, crawling out of bed reluctantly. "I'm fairly certain this goes against the spirit of Ramadan." He reached for last night's discarded jeans on the floor, pulling them on and zipping them up. He picked yesterday's shirt as well, sniffed it, and decided it wasn't worth it. He would shower and put on real clothes later.

After suhur, apparently.

"Ah, but you don't know for sure."

"You're going to do this every day, aren't you? 29 days left of Ramadan, and I'm going to have to get up at five in the morning for every one of them. Bloody hell."

"Language, John, it's Ramadan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much plot happens in the next chapter, I promise


	14. No one reads these, apparently

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a mention of domestic violence
> 
> I lied about the plot again (I swear, I thought this case would take two chapters max) BUT this chapter is longer than usual and features emotional reassurance/closeness

Things sped up over the next two and a half weeks.

The killer murdered a coke fiend, an elderly homeless man, a young homeless girl, a female prostitute, a male prostitute, a male stripper and his unlucky friend, a politically outspoken teenager with brightly colored hair.

The Butterfly Killer was a low-level news story, highly localized. Lestrade had held a single press conference and made several reassuring comments to the press whenever they showed themselves.

People weren't panicking. The newspapers hadn't nicknamed the killer, and Sherlock had been very sternly forbidden from offering them suggestions a long time ago. This type of killer, though, this egotistical vigilante, the exhibitionist who left a signature, he wouldn't quit until the whole city spoke of him. He wanted to be feared, loved, adored. Praised and vindicated, a whispered-about horror story for those who 'weren't doing right,' in his eyes.

His cool-down times got shorter and shorter. Sherlock could practically feel him loosening his definition of what made one a 'degenerate.' Pretty soon, there would be one who was morally upright. The spree would start, and anyone within eyesight would be a potential target.

Sherlock estimated to Lestrade that they had three days time left at most.

He had figured out the meaning of the butterfly, finally. It wasn't about starting fresh or 'the city reborn in blood' or any of the other frankly ridiculous suggestions the team had tossed out. No. The killer was a vigilante, thought he was cleaning up the streets, and the butterfly was specifically a monarch,  _always_ a monarch.

It meant "for Queen and country."

He was a very patriotic man, so incredibly noble and moral, willing to even go so far as to kill for the country he loved.

John had blanched when Sherlock explained it. It had made him hesitate, because he knew what he had to say next was even worse.

"The killer either has a military background or is actively involved in a quasi-military career," he said anyway. "Possibly both."

"What makes you say that?" Donovan folded her arms.

"Passion like this doesn't just crop up one day," he said. "He's always been willing to do this, to some degree or another. The killing is recent, but the urges-- and more specifically, the drives behind them-- aren't. He would have needed an outlet. Without a way to express this legally, he would have gotten arrested for violent assault long ago. It's highly unlikely our killer has a record, however, given his apparent feelings towards criminals. If he has ever been charged with anything, it certainly didn't stick. But, look at the level of overkill, the confidence and lack of hesitation. The sheer amount of violent rage necessary. This is a man used to and practiced in doling out violence. An authoritarian trying to uphold the system. He has a legal outlet, trust me, he needs one."

"Maybe he's just beating his family," Anderson said. "You said he'd have one, right? All the traditional values and whatnot? Maybe  _that's_ his outlet."

Sherlock shook his head. "The last victim was a sixteen-year-old stabbed 31 times, about 20 of which were post-mortem. This man has killed before in some legal capacity, got hooked on the sensation, and now he's chasing that feeling wherever he can. He misses it. He'll never have enough."

* * *

The killer was scouting out his victims beforehand, targeting them for their perceived sins, and then stalking them until they went somewhere secluded enough to commit a murder at. The bodies were dragged out and displayed post-mortem.

Lestrade had issued a warning for the neighborhoods he was hunting in, which were now crawling with an abundance of patrol cars. And, of course, phoned in reports of suspicious men. Almost none of these men fit the profile even remotely. There were a number of petty charges issued (one for _jaywalking_ ), but the actual killer remained at large. In general, police resources were wasted thoughtlessly, and with great abandon.

They were taking a cab back to Baker Street, and Sherlock was ranting about how London’s general population lacked the basic listening comprehension to understand a simple profile, when he noticed that John was being oddly quiet.

He abruptly shut up when he noticed, and John glanced at him. “Sherlock?”

”You’re upset,” he said.

John shifted. “Sherlock, let’s not—“

”It’s because of the military aspect, isn’t it?” he asked. “You don’t like that you have something in common with a killer. You don’t like that a fellow serviceman is capable of this.”

”It’s not a big deal,” he said. “I’m not— I’m not upset.”

”Don’t lie to me, John, you’re terrible at it and it’s just embarrassing," he said. His eyes scanned over his friend, searching, nearly searing. The temptation to remove the mental block was almost unbearable. "You-- Ah. It's more than that. You think you fit the profile of the killer. You think I see him in you."

"Not--" John started. He sighed. "I know you don't, okay? You're way too-- You just wouldn't. I-- It's not even about that."

Not about Sherlock's perspective.

Self-perception, then.

 _"You_ see him in yourself."

"I see the potential, yeah," he said uncomfortably. "What if it had all gone wrong somewhere? When I first enlisted? You said yourself I got hooked on the feeling, just like the killer did. That even now, this running around with you, is trying to recapture that. My 'legal outlet.'"

"Congratulations, John, you've just joined the ranks of every other idiot in London who is functionally incapable of understanding a very simple profile."

"No, Sherlock, no I haven't," he said. "You just don't wanna see it, but look at the facts. The killer is a white man over twenty-five, military history, traditional--"

"You are telepathically married to your male alien flatmate."

"--first you said he had a job that exposed him to violence and let him feel protective and helpful, now you're saying specifically that we're looking for a military background. He's a vigilante, Sherlock.  _A vigilante._ How's that any different from what we do?"

"We don't kill people, for one."

John looked at him. "No," he said. "You never have."

The cabbie's eyes darted towards them in the mirror. Sherlock nearly groaned aloud.

He didn't even  _have_ words for this.

 _"John,"_ he said. "Please, can I-- If you would allow me, I could..." He made a gesture at the side of his head, coupled with a significant look. Understanding lit behind John's eyes. "For communication. Just... just communication."

John nodded, no hesitation. So serious and so trusting; Sherlock was nearly breathless with it. He swallowed and raised his hand to John's meld points, and the human closed his eyes.

Sherlock broke the mental block, dissolved it into ether, and heaved a great sigh of relief that was felt in the soul rather than the body. John's mind was there.

_John's mind was there._

There was nothing-- objectively speaking-- extraordinary about it. John was intelligent for a human, but not a genius. He was quick and darkly funny and horribly sensible at times. There was a low-level thrum of energy that spoke of contentment and excitement. Sherlock saw the internal war between strong morals and responsibility versus a deep-seated desire for danger and trouble. He'd have bet anything that John lived a perfectly well-behaved life with ironclad control right up until he left his family home for university. Even then, becoming a medical doctor required a certain amount of discipline and good sense, and he'd immediately traded university life for the rigid structure of the military. Living with Sherlock was the most freely dangerous, chaotic, unpredictable thing John had ever done. He spoke to a lifelong need that had never been fulfilled, only teased in tastes and sips.

There was nothing extraordinary about it, except that it was the most beautiful and extraordinary thing Sherlock had ever experienced.

Were all human minds like this? Why had he never experimented? He'd mind-melded with his father before, sure, and it had struck him as exceedingly dull. And Victor, once, in uni, while they were both unbelievably high. The experience had been more terrifying than anything, and Victor had written both it and the entire conversation before it off as a drug-induced hallucination. Sherlock had all too readily agreed.

So not all human minds. Though he hardly had a science-worthy sample to draw from. But even his melds with Mycroft and Mummy had never been like this. Their minds were cold cold cold and clear, almost painful and sharp to the touch, a razor's edge of intelligence. Brutal, ceaseless logic. He had felt awe, and admiration, and as he got older, adrift. Lost and different and confused. Illogical.

His wedding meld with John had been a sunburst of sensation, an explosion of feeling and emotion. It caught him like a tidal wave, like a supernova. Completely unprepared and incapable of defense, helpless to do anything but just sit there and feel it.

He had marked that off as an outlier. It was a wedding meld. A bonding. Of course it was intense; it was the joining of two minds into one. Of course he had never felt anything like it; he had never been bonded before.

He would be lying if he claimed never to have dreamt of what it would be like to meld with John for pleasure. Not to accomplish anything, not for any specific end, but simply because they were married and it was a pleasurable thing to do with each other. He had told himself (repeatedly, very firmly) that it would likely be nothing exceptional, quite possibly dull, and furthermore, it was unlikely to ever happen. John valued his privacy too much. He wouldn't want strange aliens poking around in his mind.

He was dimly aware of John examining his consciousness, turning his mind over and over to get a sense for it, eagerly looking at every little bit he could without any training in technique.

He quickly hid a number of things. Not a block, really, just... putting certain aspects of himself out of view. For the best.

John's examination didn't stop, per se, but it seemed to slow under considerable effort, an air of expectation settling over him. Indeterminate questions hovered around him.

And Sherlock explained without words.

He showed him himself and the killer side by side. The killer was faceless, shadowy, large and intimidating. A monarch butterfly sat, living and breathing and beating its wings, on his chest. The construction of the killer in Sherlock's mind palace had concepts and emotions pinned to him like words on a diagram. Some were visual, readable. Some were felt instead, somehow even more visible than the others.

Strong morals, said the diagram. Military (past? quasi?) career. Vigilante, took the law into his own hands.

John hadn't seemed to get the hang of expressing words in this space yet, but he felt things at that, complicated things that Sherlock wasn't capable of labeling.

He rebutted it anyway. Authoritarian. Traditionalist. Intolerant, his personal politics. What he considers a good reason to kill someone for versus what John considers a good reason to kill someone for. The killer is protective, yes, as an aspect of his male power fantasy and perceived superiority. His family and community is weak and vulnerable, and needs a strong man such as himself to defend it from moral degenerates. John is protective out of empathy and only when he believes intervention is required, having enough respect for others to trust them with their own decisions unless he actually believes that will cause them harm. 

John went to war out of a need for money and because he thought it was the right thing to do at the time. The killer went to war out of bloodlust and a thirst for power. If he did, in fact, go to war.

Sherlock spends about fifteen minutes (it feels like-- time is wobbly in a mindmeld) attacking the idea that what they do is in any way, shape, or form  _vigilantism,_ dear god. John apologizes for even suggesting the idea once he's done.

And then he finishes his rant off grandly by reminding John that he could be facing what he saw-- according to his own personal morals-- as the most vile, evil person on Earth, and he still wouldn't kill them unless he thought it was necessary to save others.

Stunned silence met that. Sherlock wondered, oddly, just how badly the war had managed to muck up John's perception of his own goodness.

 _Idiot,_ he thought, felt soft amusement, giddy happiness (muted), and broke the meld.

They both pulled back from each other, smiling, in the back of the cab.

"Finally," the cabbie said. "We been stopped for ten minutes now! You two can stare into each other's eyes inside; pay up and get the fuck outta my cab!"


End file.
